When It's Real

  “We’re not interested in your excuses. A courier will be delivering your severance check today. Feel free to change your passwords to your social media accounts. They’re all yours.”

  “But Claudia—”

  “You’re done,” she says and then hangs up.

  My mouth is still open as I do a search for Oakley Ford. The first couple of headlines tell me everything I need to know.

  The Ford’s Been Breached.

  Out with the Ford, In With the New.

  Sick to my stomach, I click on the first link.

  Oakley Ford’s latest fling has found love—in the arms of his best friend. Luke Sellin has been Oakley’s bassist for five years, but Luke isn’t satisfied with playing backup. He wants to be the front man. Last night at the Sweetheart Lounge, Luke admitted to hooking up with Oakley’s new gal pal, Vaughn Bennett. Oakley had no comment when we reached out to him, but Vaughn’s old boyfriend did. You’ll remember that Vaughn was dating a USC student when she tried to upgrade to Oakley.

  William Wilkerson told our cameras that once a cheater, always a cheater.

  You can do so much better, Oakley! Call us now that you’re single.

  I don’t need to read the comments. I already know everything they’re going to say. Quickly, I dial Oakley’s number, but it rings once and transfers me to voice mail. I leave a message.

  “Hey, it’s me. I read the gossip this morning. How do you want me to respond? Is this going to hurt your tour? Call me!”

  I text him the same thing.

  There’s no response, but I tell myself the silence is because he’s sleeping. Oakley is allergic to early mornings. Six a.m. is an ungodly hour for him.

  I try to go back to sleep, but my mind is racing, so I get up and make oatmeal cookies. And then snickerdoodles. And then lemon bars.

  By the time Paisley comes downstairs, every surface in the kitchen has a baked good on it.

  “Claudia called you already,” Paisley guesses.

  I nod miserably. “And Oakley hasn’t called, but he’s probably up by now. I think I should go over there. Can I use the car or do you need it?”

  Her eyes grow soft. She slides an arm around my shoulders. “Honey, Oakley left for New York an hour ago.”

  My stomach drops. “What?”

  She bites her lip. “Ty texted me when they were at the airport.”

  “But...” I fumble with the phone I’ve been checking every spare second. “But he hasn’t said anything! I’ve left him messages. Called him.” I search her face for any sign that she knows what’s going on.

  “Claudia says he’s blocked you,” Paisley admits. “Your calls will go to voice mail. Your text messages will disappear into the ether.” She avoids my panicky gaze. “He doesn’t want to hear from you.”

  I feel sick. Like, about-to-throw-up sick. I shrug out of her grasp and sag against the counter. “But...why?” I choke out. “This thing with Luke happened before. When it was all fake. Right after W broke up with me, I was stupid and drank too much and kissed Luke, but that was it. I haven’t said more than five words to him since then.” I charge forward and grab her shoulder. “Call them and tell them!”

  She gives me a sad look. “I can’t. It’s done.”

  I scan my brain, trying to figure out what I could’ve done to make Oakley react like this. He already knew about the Luke thing, so it can’t be that. Was it the party? Because I invited his dad?

  You did it for yourself. You weren’t thinking of me. You were thinking about how you’d like your parents back, but my parents aren’t like yours, Vaughn.

  Oakley’s words buzz through my mind, making me light-headed. Is that the reason? Does he think I was acting out of selfishness when I tried to bridge the distance between him and his dad?

  Or maybe he’s purposely pushing me away. Maybe he was so freaked out by the angry fan incident that he decided the only way to make me stay away from the tour was to end it?

  None of those options make sense to me, though. Nothing makes sense right now.

  Before I can argue with Paisley some more, the doorbell rings. Shoving past my sister, I fly to the front door, hoping that Paisley’s wrong and it’s Oakley at the door. He changed his mind about me not going with him to New York. He’s here to pick me up. I know it.

  I wrench open the door, but instead of Oak’s gorgeous face, a thick-jowled man in brown hands me an envelope.

  “You Vaughn Bennett?” Is that disgust in his voice? Am I currently the most hated individual in LA? If I got egged before when Oakley loved me, what happens when he hates me? I shudder.

  Deliveryman takes that as a sign of assent and shoves an electronic pad into my hands.

  “Sign, please.”

  Numbly, I sign. He jerks the pad out of my hand and slaps the envelope into my slack palm.

  “Shouldn’t have screwed him over,” the guy says unhelpfully.

  Yup, that was disgust all right. I slam the door in his face.

  In the hall, I rip the envelope open and a sheaf of papers falls out. I’m even more panicked when I realize it’s the contract I signed after I agreed to work for Oakley—and on the front page is a big red stamp that says “Canceled.” Also enclosed is a letter that thanks me for services rendered, advises me to abide by the terms of my NDA or my entire life will be destroyed, and, finally, that I’m not to have any contact with the subject of the NDA for any reason whatsoever or the entire proceeds will be forfeited. A check slides out of the envelope and floats to the floor.

  My phone buzzes. This time, when I pull it out of my back pocket, I’m a lot less eager than I was before. I’m numb. And shocked. And so close to tears that my eyes are burning.

  I’m blinking back the tears as I read the text from Carrie.

  Babe. Saw the IG post. So sorry. W is an ass. Oak’s an ass.

  Trying valiantly not to cry, I open the Instagram app. It doesn’t take long to scroll to Oak’s feed and see the picture of him standing on the stage at Madison Square Garden. His back is to the camera, but you can see that he has a guitar strapped around his neck. The arena is empty.

  On my own and loving life. Can’t wait to perform in front of NYC tonight, reads the caption.

  I crumple the papers in my fist and walk away, leaving the five-figure payoff lying in the entryway.

  36

  HER

  “What do you think about me egging Oakley’s house?” I ask Paisley three nights and a raft of tears later. We’re side by side at the sink, washing dishes after dinner. “Would that get you fired?”

  “I’m going with yes, but only if we get caught.” She smiles gamely. “I’m in.”

  “Nah, forget it. He’s not worth the risk.” I shove a wet plate into Paisley’s hands so she can dry it. “Honestly? I think this is the lowest point in my life,” I admit. “I had an egg thrown at me by an angry fangirl. My fake boyfriend broke up with me through his publicist, and I still don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with my life.”

  “It’s very Hollywood, though,” she points out.

  “What’s my redemptive arc then? When does that start? Or do I need to be humiliated some more?”

  She places the dry plate in the cupboard before asking, “Have you really not talked to him at all?”

  “Of course not.” I shoot her a bitter look. “You said he blocked me.”

  Paisley pauses for a beat. “Ty says he’s miserable.”

  I frown. “Ty’s miserable?”

  She wipes her hands on a towel and hands it to me. “No. Oakley’s miserable.”

  “So? He should be.” I snap the towel in irritation.

  “If you’re both miserable, you should do something about it.”

  “Like what? Beg him to take me back? Forg
et it.” I toss the towel on the counter. “You know, this was stupid right from the start. I should’ve just gone to USC this year. Actually, I should sign up for summer courses. Get a head start.”

  She slants her head. “And what will you study?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

  Paisley doesn’t answer, but she gives me the look. The one that says she’s so much wiser than I am.

  “What?” I say irritably. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Nope.” Her tone is light, but her eyes are serious. “But... Vaughn. Look. It’s perfectly okay for you to not want to go to college right away. It’s okay for you to not know exactly what you want to do with the rest of your life. You shouldn’t be a teacher just because you feel like that’s going to keep Mom and Dad alive in your heart, because they’re always going to be there, no matter what you do. And no matter how broken your heart is, you got something valuable out of it.”

  “Money?” Seriously? Is that what she’s talking about? Because money doesn’t seem like such an important thing right now.

  “No. You got to see what it looks like when someone’s pursuing something they love. You’re not doing that, and you should.”

  “But I don’t know what I love.” I throw my hands up in the air. “That’s the whole problem. Everyone else knows what they want out of life. You love your job. Oak has his music. Kiki’s wanted to be a hairdresser since fourth grade. When Carrie started in mock trial as a junior, it was like her whole path became rock solid. And here I am, a ton of AP classes later, and all I know is what I don’t want to do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?” I ask in frustration.

  “Okay, start there.”

  Oak’s exact words. I lower my hands to my sides, an odd sense of defeat washing over me. “That’s what Oakley said,” I confess.

  She raises her eyebrows. “Wow. You, the person who pretends all the time that she’s happy and confident, admitted to some celluloid pop star about your insecurities? You must’ve really liked him.”

  I nod miserably. “I did. No, I do.” The tears that I’ve been trying to swallow form a big, huge ball in my throat. “Oh, Paise, why’d he stop talking to me?”

  “I don’t know.” She takes my hand. “Easy way to find out, though.”

  “How?”

  “You fly to the next stop on his tour. I think it’s Miami next?”

  “He doesn’t want me there,” I whisper.

  “Well, too bad for him. At the very least, you’ll get the closure you need.” Paisley shrugs. “I’ve always been a big believer in breaking up with someone in person. Oakley took the coward’s way out, and that’s not doing a lick of good for you. You need to find out why he did what he did, otherwise you’ll never truly get over him.” She offers another shrug. “And maybe when you see him and hear his reasoning, you two might be able to work through it. Either way, you won’t know unless you go.”

  “And have him kick me out? No, thanks.”

  “So stay here and pretend to be happy. Or for once, lay yourself out there. Take a chance.”

  “Like you’re doing with Ty,” I say sarcastically.

  “Exactly like I do with Ty.” She whips out her phone and shows me her last text.

  I’ll find a new job if that’s what’s keeping us apart.

  I rock back on my heels. I’d been so wrapped up in my own personal drama I hadn’t realized that Paisley and Ty’s romance was going somewhere. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. For the right guy, Vaughn, it’s worth getting hurt. Would you trade all those years with Mom and Dad so you wouldn’t have to have the pain of their loss?”

  No, but the emotions are so thick in my throat I can’t answer out loud, so I settle for shaking my head.

  “Stop being afraid of life. Go out and let love take you on a journey. Would you rather go to Miami and have Oak kick you out, or wonder what if for the rest of your life?”

  “Go to Miami,” I manage to croak.

  “Good.” She reaches behind her and presents me with a printout. “Because Ty and I got you a seat on a private plane that leaves in three hours for Miami. You may not know what you want to do with your future, but you know who you want to do it with. Better get packing.”

  37

  HIM

  1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 this concert is so lit

  OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 I’m dying

  @OakleyFord I love you

  @OakleyFord your so beautiful

  @OakleyFord please like me back. It’s my birthday! Pls!!!!!

  @OakleyFord you slay king

  There are fifty thousand screaming fans waiting for me, and the last thing I want to do is face them. I just want to lock myself in this green room and never come out. Or maybe take a page out of my mom’s book, throw on a crazy wig and sunglasses and sneak out altogether.

  And go where?

  The internal question makes me wince. Because really, where would I go? Back to LA? Back to Vaughn, the girl who doesn’t want to be with me?

  Nah, I’m better off staying in New York. At least the fans here want to be around me. Hell, they’d sell their firstborns, cut off an arm, maybe both, just to breathe the same air as me.

  Funny enough, I’d do all that, too, if it meant breathing the same air as Vaughn.

  I miss her.

  I miss her sarcastic remarks and her beach bum clothes and her rare but unbelievably contagious laughter. I can barely think about her without feeling like I’ve been sucker punched. Then again, it’s only been four days. Maybe in a week or two the pain won’t be as raw. Maybe the wound will start to heal and then I’ll be able to remember her without falling apart.

  A part of me still can’t believe it’s over, though. Or that she broke up with me through Jim.

  I couldn’t even understand what I was seeing when my manager slapped the terminated contract in my hand as I sat in the waiting room at the Van Nuys airport. At first I thought it was a joke. I’d just been about to call Vaughn to apologize for our argument, and to give her a head’s up about the “cheating scandal.” Claudia had sent me the links, which I’d laughed off. The Luke thing was old news to me. I didn’t give a shit if he wanted to run his mouth to the press. I figured Vaughn wouldn’t care about it, either.

  But I figured wrong. Jim said she’d called him that morning and told him she wanted out. That she was humiliated. That my life was too much for her.

  I texted her immediately. She didn’t respond. I called her. She didn’t pick up. And then, after hours of radio silence and about a hundred unanswered messages, she finally texted me back. Every word of that message is still branded in my mind.

  I’m sorry, Oak, but I’m done. It’s too much for me.

  I told her when we first met that not many women could handle my life. And I told her again after the paps ambushed us at my birthday party. I asked her not to tour with me, because I knew what she would encounter if she came along. The rabid fangirls who want to claw her eyes out. The constant questions from reporters. The bogus rumors and accusations in the tabloids. I didn’t want that for her.

  I guess she decided she didn’t want that for herself.

  She was egged, for crying out loud. I can’t blame her for bailing.

  Yet I do.

  Ty asks me what’s wrong, and I tell him to mind his own fucking business. Then, because I was a dickhead, I avoid him. Hell, I avoid everyone as much as possible.

  The only person I want to be around is Vaughn.

  * * *

  The upside to my fucked-up heart is some good music. My misery has already given me inspiration for a new song, which I’ve been playing all week in my hotel suite. I’m playing it now, too, as a knock thuds on t
he door and King walks in without waiting for an invitation.

  He wasn’t able to make it for the tour’s kick-off shows in New York, but luckily he managed to swing these Miami gigs. The tour has been a massive success so far. Not only that, but my new record is still topping the charts since its release. My fans love my new sound. I’ve gotten thousands of Tweets and emails from people saying it was one hundred percent worth the wait. I forwarded a few of those messages to Jim as an I told you so for his whole “two years with no album, everyone’s going to forget you!” spiel. This new album has already surpassed the sales of Ford, my highest-selling record to date.

  “Damn shame you wrote this after we finalized the album,” King says when he notices what I’m playing.

  He took me out for a drink after the show last night because I didn’t feel like going to any of the parties, and afterward, the two of us hung out in his suite, where I played him the new song. He loved it.

  Still does, apparently, because he whistles softly. “I think it’s the most brilliant thing you’ve ever done.”

  “We can put it on the next record.” I slowly meet his eyes. “Will there be a next one or are you moving on?”

  I hold my breath, anticipating the latter. Nobody stays in my life for longer than a heartbeat. Just ask Vaughn.

  “You’re never getting rid of me now. But you will have to wait. I’ve got albums with three other artists to produce first.”

  “But you’ll always make time for me, right?”

  “Damn right.” He smiles.

  I smile back, but it’s halfhearted and puts a strain on my facial muscles. But I do appreciate everything he’s done for me, and I make sure to tell him that. “Thanks for having patience with me, man,” I say awkwardly. “For believing that I was ready to...grow up, I guess.”

  “No problem.” He raises a brow. “Except it seems like you’re relapsing, kid. Sitting here sulking when you’ve got thousands of fans waiting for you ain’t exactly a sign of growing up.”

  He’s right. I set down the guitar and hop to my feet. I’m already decked out in my concert gear—ripped jeans, tight T-shirt, hair perfectly gelled and a little smudge of eyeliner under the eyes because the girls dig it. Speaking of girls, I know there are about fifty of them with backstage passes gathering outside the door. One tried to sneak in earlier, but Ty was quick to stop her.